


Sand In The Sun

by xxignoredxx



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Implied/Referenced Underage, M/M, PTSD John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-27
Updated: 2013-09-27
Packaged: 2017-12-27 18:09:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/982023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxignoredxx/pseuds/xxignoredxx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A case leaves John with memories of the Afghan sun. <br/>(originally written for letswritesherlock challenge 1, but didn't get it done in time. could be set either before/after the fall)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sand In The Sun

It was a child – boy, around 10 years of age, black hair, and tan skin. He was wearing a sweatshirt, grey, with a picture of a cartoon cat on the chest. His jeans were slightly too short around his ankles, and John could tell they had been put back on postmortem. Both shoes were missing, along with the right sock. The bottom of his left foot was dirty and slightly bloody. John guessed that he must have cut it on the rocks littering the alleyway.

The boy was face-down, legs resting in an oily puddle, making his jeans soaking wet at the knees. His clothes, aside from being wet, were littered with dirt and grime, as if he had been shoved to the ground and held there for a while. John could almost picture the fear on that boy's face, whatever it may have looked like. 

The cause of death was obvious; even Anderson could have figured it out. The poor boy's face had been smashed in, leaving almost no of his facial features left intact. What was left of his head laid partially in another puddle, turned to the left hand side. Blood, bits of skull, and brain fragments were scattered on the pavement and the boy's clothes. Whoever did this must have really hated children. 

John could only bring himself to look for a few seconds before he had to turn away, hands shoved into his jacket pockets. Sherlock was crouched in front of the child, using his magnifying glass to look for all possible clues. John could almost see the gears spinning in his friend’s head. 

Lestrade stood a few feet away in the lighter area of the alleyway, the squad cars blue and red lights flashing across his grim face, twisted in a deep frown as he watched Sherlock do his work in the late night hour. For a man who did nothing but solve murders, John supposed that seeing dead children was never easy for anyone. Sally and Anderson were doing their work as usual, but their eyes didn't stray over to the dead boy. 

“Evening, Greg,” John said as he strode up to the Detective, his back to the gruesome scene. “So, any leads yet?” 

Lestrade tore his eyes away from Sherlock's back, focusing on John. “Uh – no, not yet. Christ,” Greg sighed, running his right hand through his hair. “This is the second kid. I tried to get a hold of Sherlock after the first one, but he thought it was 'boring, you can figure it out'! Wish we had, those poor kids.” 

“John!” Sherlock called before John could say anything to Lestrade. With a nod, the doctor walked briskly back over to his friend, doing his best to not look directly at the body. 

“Time of death?” Sherlock asked, still looking over the child closely. 

“Liver temp?” John replied. He would rather Sherlock think he was stupid than have to touch the body of a dead child. 

“Donovan said it was around thirty-two degrees Celsius.” 

_Oh thank God you didn't make me touch a dead kid._ “Right, so that means he's been dead for five or six hours. It's a bit cold tonight, so it might be shorter. Rigor mortis should begin soon, if it hasn't already. Molly sure is going to have a hard time with this one.” 

Sherlock hummed, now inspecting the boy's fingernails. “Care to tell me what Donovan briefed you when we got here?” 

Clearing his throat, John fixed his eyes on the stone wall behind Sherlock. “Peter Thompson, age ten, blood type O. Peter attended the primary school just a block away, along with the other boy who went missing earlier this week. His parents put a missing persons report about three hours ago, he was found about an hour ago by a woman walking her dog. Mother said that he usually goes over to a Mr. Oliver White's house for tutoring in math -” 

“Let me guess,” Sherlock interrupted, finally standing up. John could almost hear the eye-roll in his voice. “The other boy had the same tutor?” 

John flipped through his notes. “Yes, the other boy, Isaac, had the same tutor, but his parents said he didn't see him the day he died. Missing persons report was filed about two hours after Issac was supposed to return home from school, and he was found about an hour later much like how Peter is.” John sighed, still flipping through his notes. “From the looks of it, Oliver hasn't been questioned.” 

Sherlock nodded, shoving his hands into his coat pockets. “Let's go pay him a visit then, hmm?” 

**[][]**

Oliver White's apartment wasn't very far from the crime scene and the primary school both dead boys attended. Even for being a poorer part of London, the building looked as if it were very moldy and damp. White walls with stains of various kinds and hallways that smelt of urine, John hoped they wouldn't spend long in the chilly building. Lucky for him, Oliver's unit was on the bottom floor. 

John knocked for a good minute before Sherlock kicked the door in. Pulling his gun from the waistband of his jeans, John followed the consulting detective into the apartment. 

Strangely, all of the lights were left on, as if someone had just been there. The second thing John noticed was that it was bitter cold in the unit, as if someone had left the AC on, even though it was late November. The apartment was small – perhaps even smaller than the flat John lived in after the war. White walls were empty, grey carpet stained with God-knows-what. Sherlock went straight for the tiny kitchen adjacent to the living room, rummaging through drawers for clues. John sighed as he tucked his gun back into place, and took to the coffee table. 

_Chinese takeout menu; TV guide from about three years ago; answer sheets for what looks like homework he would give the kids he tutored; receipts, receipts, and more receipts; hmm, what's this?_ John frowned as he bent over and picked up a ratty black notebook. 

Furring his eyebrows, he opened the notebook carefully. The pencil marks on the first page were so smudged that John couldn't make out a single word. The couple of pages after that were very much the same. John was about to discard it when he finally found a clean page. Letting out a sigh and running his free hand through his hair, John couldn't get the image of this young, tan boy out of his mind as he read the page. 

_Peter: Tuesday – Friday, sometimes Saturday if his scores were low, babysit if parents are out; about 120 cm. tall and 4.5 stone (a little small for his age, but hopefully he won't grow too much); skin colour – tan; hair colour – black; eye colour – hazel; favourite colour – green; favourite film – Alvin and the Chipmunks meet the Wolfman; reason for tutoring – pretty shite at maths._

Two whole pages filled with random facts about Peter. When Peter's pages ended, Isaac’s began. After Isaac were three other boys. The most recent boy, Joel, had nothing but his name, age, and school schedule written on his page. John's heart beat hard in his chest with relief that nothing more would be written. 

“Sherlock, I found something,” John called, doing his best to talk over the lump forming in his throat. His taller friend strode over from the tiny kitchen, snatching the notebook out of the doctor's hands. 

“Well,” Sherlock drawled as he flipped through the pages, his eyes scanning quickly. “This should be more than enough for Lestrade to arrest Mister White. Now, we just need to find him.” 

With a swish of his great wool coat that seemed to blow warm air on John's right cheek, Sherlock made his way to the suspect’s bedroom, down the short hallway to the right. “Let's go.” 

Clearing his throat and tucking his arms behind his back, John stayed put. “I think – I think I'll look in the bathroom first.” 

The consulting detective spun around again, blowing all that warm air on John's face again. He studied John for a moment before giving a slow, hesitant nod. 

John cleared his throat again. “I'll just – right.” Brushing past Sherlock, John made his way into the small bathroom across the hall from the bedroom. The doctor could feel his friend watch him the entire time; it brought the hot air back to John's face. 

Opening the bathroom door quickly, John waited a moment until he heard Sherlock begin his own search in the bedroom. The bathroom was small and mostly white with blue accenting tiles. Straight ahead of him was the washbasin with a mirrored medicine cabinet hanging over it. To the right of that was the toilet, and then even more to the right was the bath/shower taking up the whole other side of the tiny bathroom. The closed shower curtain was old, once-white, and probably moldy on the other side. 

Sighing, the shorter man started with the medicine cabinet hanging over the basin. John only glanced at his own reflection – how on Earth can his skin still be slightly tanned? - before opening the mirrored door. The top shelf was lined with hair and body care products, a toothbrush and toothpaste, and a slightly rusty razor. The middle and bottom shelf were empty except for one thing: a bottle of sleeping pills. 

_Zaleplon? God, I hope he wasn't using this on the kids. Sally didn't say. Works quick enough, half a pill would do it._

CLANK! 

It sounded as if a bottle of shampoo had been knocked off the edge of the bathtub. John's whole body froze as his eyes were fixed on the shower curtain. The soft sounds of someone moving their legs frantically were heard. Slowly, John reached behind his back and grabbed his gun from its tucked position in his waistband. With steady hands, the army doctor reached forward, with his gun held high, and yanked back the curtain. 

_The air is hot on his face, the sand getting under his helmet. It's too hot to be wearing this many layers of clothing. Science has come far enough to invent a bullet proof vest that doesn't feel like the surface of the sun, right?_

_Inside a makeshift tent was an older, tanned man wearing dirty, ripped robes. He was holding a smaller, tan boy with wild black hair in a chokehold, a stolen Glock pressing into the boy’s temple. The boy was crying, his brown eyes wide with fear, staring right into John. John let the flap of the tent fall back, his L85A2(1) heavy in his calloused hands._

“Put your gun down, or I swear I'll fucking shoot him!” 

_John's surprised he understands what the man said, considering he knew very little Pashto (2). Only enough to let people know he wasn't there to kill._

_“No, don't shoot, I'm an ally,” John said slowly, knowing he messed up the accent. The man looked confused, if not a bit scared. John worried he learnt the phrase wrong._

“Wha – what the fuck are you saying? Joel, you told me you didn't speak Iraqi. Did you fucking lie to me?” _The man snarled, shoving the gun harder into the boy’s temple. The child let out a cry, shaking his head._

_“No! Don't shoot him! I'm an ally!” John was yelling by now, the Afghan sun beating on his back. The boy looked so scared now, the man holding the boy even tighter. If John didn't stop him soon, the boy would surely choke to death._

_John gripped his L85A2 tighter, curling his toes in his sand filled boots. He aimed his rifle at the robed man. “Let the boy go! Or I'll shoot!”_

“John!” 

His gun was ripped from his hand, the blaze of the sun replaced by the chill of London. He was no longer in the desert, but in the small bathroom of Oliver White. In the bathtub, Oliver had the boy – Joel – in a chokehold with a small pistol pressed against his temple. Joel was crying, staring in fear at John. 

“Mister White,” Sherlock said flatly, as if something like this occurred daily. He held John's gun tightly in his pale hands, aimed right at Oliver's head. “I suggest you let the boy go, and put your gun down.” 

Before Oliver could even respond or take action, Sherlock pulled his trigger and shot the man in the side of the throat. Joel screamed, blood splattering the side of his tan face. If John hadn't already seen something eerily similar, he probably would have jumped back. Joel scrambled away as Oliver's arm went slack. Sherlock grabbed the kids shoulder before he could run out of the room. 

“Your name is Joel, correct? Here -” Sherlock grabbed one of the towels hanging from a rack by the sink. He kneeled down, putting the cloth into Joel's hand. “Wipe the blood from your face while I call the police. Go sit on the couch, but don't touch anything.” 

Joel nodded his head, giving John a long stare before scurrying to the living room. Sherlock hummed before standing back up. Silently, he handed the gun back to John. The doctor took it back with shaky hands, putting it back in his waistband. He made a move to go to the living room, but Sherlock placed a cool hand on his shoulder, pushing him back. John looked up at Sherlock, keeping his mouth in a straight, firm line. 

“I think it would be best if you stayed in here until Lestrade got here,” Sherlock said with no intention of letting John convince him otherwise. The taller man's pale blue eyes bore into John’s, not looking for an explanation, his hand gripping John's left shoulder a little tighter than his scar would have liked. Sherlock already knew what happened. Of course he did. 

John cleared his throat and nodded, unable to look at Sherlock for more than a few seconds. Without another word, the paler man left the bathroom, closing the door behind him. John let out a sigh, glancing at the blood-stained tub before he looked at his own reflection in the mirror. 

He could still feel the sand in his boots. 

**[][]**

Lestrade hadn't been happy at all. Shooting a suspect in front of a small boy was almost enough for the Detective to arrest them, but neither John nor Sherlock would confess to who shot Oliver. Joel was so traumatized; Greg didn't even want to ask the poor kid for details. There would be a mountain of paperwork on Monday, Lestrade just knew it. 

The taxi-ride home was quiet and tense. Sherlock, oddly, kept his phone in his breast pocket the whole time and didn't say a word to John. Usually, right after a case, he would talk to John about it until the boredom finally set in, or at least titter about on his phone doing god-knows-what. Instead, the consulting detective kept his eyes on the moving scenery of London outside his window. John would glance at Sherlock every now and then, but his friend didn't move at all. The doctor wanted nothing more than to go home and sleep for 12 hours straight in his warm bed. 

The cab stopped right in front of Baker Street, and for the first time since John met Sherlock, John got out of the cab first. The thought of even giving a poor cabbie some change made him feel sick. His damn right leg was giving him trouble as he limped down the sidewalk. 

Thankfully, Mrs. Hudson was asleep. It was late in the night, so John wasn't all that surprised. With a sigh, he limped up the stairs to 221B. Absentmindedly, the shorter man threw his jacket onto Sherlock's chair. John didn't even bother to wait for the taller man to make his way inside from the cab; he just wanted some rest. 

John made his way up to his own bedroom just as he heard Sherlock enter the flat. He shut his door firmly, hoping his eccentric friend would get the idea to leave him alone for the night. 

With a sigh, John took his gun from the waistband of his jeans, placing it on top of his dresser. Without even bothering to turn a lamp on, John removed his heavy jumper and jeans, then put on a pair of track suit bottoms before climbing into bed. Even though the night air was cool and made John's scar ache a bit, a part of him wanted to feel the chill. It was better than the Afghan sun and burning sand. 

Just as John was fully comfortable in his blankets, his door opened. The shorter man thought, for a second, about yelling at the intruder to _just leave me be and sleep_ , but he knew it was futile. Reaching over to turn on his bedside lamp, John sat up and rubbed his eyes. 

“Sherlock-” 

“Did he die?” 

John looked up, ready to throw his colleague out of his room, only to find Sherlock standing at the foot of his bed with what John assumed was a cup of tea cradled in his left hand. The taller man gently handed the warm mug to the blond before stepping back, standing in front of John calmly. 

Clearing his throat, John took a sip of his tea. It was his favourite, with the perfect amount of milk and no sugar. The domesticity of the situation made John want to laugh. Instead, he placed the mug on his nightstand before folding his hands in his lap and staring at a spot on the wall next to Sherlock’s left shoulder. John cleared his throat again. 

“Yes, he died.” 

Sherlock nodded. The silence grew between them, filled with the same sort of awkwardness that happens when two barely-best-friends share their deepest secrets at midnight at age fourteen. John reached for his mug again, taking a huge drink. The fact that Sherlock even made tea for him, let alone his favourite, was enough to calm his nerves a bit. 

For a brief moment, John Watson contemplated telling Sherlock how that boy died. He thought about telling him that it was a month before he got shot, that it was a routine scan of the area around the base; that, even though he told the man not to shoot, that man did anyway, killing that small, tan boy. John thought about telling Sherlock how, not even a second after the Afghan man pulled the trigger on the stolen Glock, John shot him between the eyes. He thought about telling Sherlock that it was the first kid he had ever seen killed, and that he had nightmares for weeks after. 

Instead, John cleared his throat again and looked Sherlock in the eyes, before saying, “He looked a lot like Joel.” 

Sherlock nodded slowly. The consulting detective opened his mouth to say something, but decided to stay silent. He was looking at John with a strange expression on his face, but the doctor was honestly too tired to try and decipher whatever his friend was thinking. 

John downed the rest of his tea, placing the now empty cup on his nightstand. “Thanks for the tea, Sherlock, but if you don't mind, I'd love to get some sleep.” Before waiting for a reply, John turned the lamp off and rolled back under his blankets, facing away from Sherlock, exhausted to his core. 

He heard Sherlock shuffle a bit before John felt a cool hand on his right shoulder, squeezing gently. 

“You did everything you could have,” Sherlock said softly before his hand was removed. Just as John rolled over, his bedroom door was shutting. 

The doctor rolled back over, finally letting sleep take over his brain. 

His dreams were filled with sand and sun. 

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so this was originally started for the letswritesherlock challenge 1. I obviously didn't finish it in time, but I liked the idea behind this so much that I didn't want to totally abandon it. So yeah, just a little PTSD fic. Nothing too romantic. Yeah. Hope you liked it!


End file.
